


Words and fire

by LinkedSoul



Series: Bonding moments [5]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Fantasy AU, Hunay, I don't know what I'm doing, I don't know where I'm going with that, M/M, don't expect much of it, kind of a steampunk AU, klance, sorry this is shitty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-17 00:40:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8123896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinkedSoul/pseuds/LinkedSoul
Summary: "The boy didn't have a name. He was wandering in the streets, haggard, his clothes ragged, one foot shoeless, knocking at the doors.Nobody answered. It was Mist Night and people never opened their door for a stranger during Mist Night." (Fantasy Au, steampunkish AU, feel free to give me ideas about that one because I really don't know where I'm going or what I'm doing.)





	1. Mist Night

**Author's Note:**

> Heey! A new Klance fic! That one will be long - I hope - and I quite like it!  
> Truth is: I have no idea where I'm going. One day, I was inspired and I began to write this, but I have absolutely no idea where this is going. If chapters take time to come out, you know why.  
> Send me ideas, suggestions, I need help! QvQ/ Iamverysorryforthisaaaaah  
> It wasn't beta-read and english is not my first language, sorry for the mistakes!

**Mist Night**

The boy didn't have a name. He was wandering in the streets, haggard, his clothes ragged, one foot shoeless, knocking at the doors. 

Nobody answered. It was Mist Night and people never opened their door for a stranger during Mist Night. 

The bright blue moon was casting shadows in the empty streets, the same shadows dancing on the boy's tanned skin, in his ruffled brown hair, in his blank dark eyes. The lampposts' candlelights had been blown off just before dusk by the Light Officers, but the city was still bright and clear under the moonlight, unusually sleepy and silent. 

The Mist twirled around the boy while descending upon the streets. It grazed the pavement gently, and the world became blurred, blue, humid and fresh. The boy looked at the Mist, lost, before stretching out his arms to touch it. The Mist jerked away from his fingertips: it was not used of people being able to physically perceive it - for most people, the Mist was only visible, a translucid Veil blurring their sight behind their windows. But the boy smiled, a soft and kind smile, and the Mist was soon happily gifting his skin with little silver droplets. Friends were rare. Most Talkers had been taken away by the Security Officers long go and there weren't many newcomers in the city.

"Where can I go?" the boy asked the Mist, since there wasn't anybody else to question. 

The city was sleeping during Mist Night, from dusk to dawn, sleeping or closing their doors to wanderers. No one awake in the streets during Mist Night, that was the rule. Security Officers were patrolling the area every hour, checking that nobody was outside, taking away every rebel, to the point no teen ever broke that rule anymore just to prove their courage as they used to. 

If the boy was caught by a patrol, he wouldn't last long. It was a miracle that he hadn't been noticed yet by the Security Officers. For the rest of the citizens, he was a wanderer, they didn't care about him, but to the Security Officers, he was a criminal.

The Mist didn't want the boy to be a criminal, so it stretched itself into the entire city to find an open door, or at least an open mind. It then focused on the ground, creating a silver path on the pavement that the boy followed obediently. 

"Thanks," he said.

There was a long howl and the dark eyes widened in fear. The boy began to run as the Mist gathered around him to hide him from the patrols. Left, right, left, left again, then right, straight forward - the boy's breath was quick and unsteady. He ended his race crashing against a heavy wooden door, knocking, searching frantically for any doorknob, anything. The Mist slipped under the door, unlocked it, and the next second the boy was stumbling inside, landing on his hands and knees. Then it retreated, locking the door again - the Mist didn't feel good inside the houses: it didn't belong here. 

The boy stayed still for a long minute, panting and coughing, before he got up and began searching blindly for a switch: though the tradition wanted lampposts to be lit up with fire, most houses were now equipped with electricity. It was so dark he couldn't even see his own hands, so dark he had to pinch himself to make sure his eyes were open.

The light suddenly chased the obscurity around him and he blinked several time before getting sight of his environment. He was in a huge, wide workshop with many tables and many tools and various objects scattered anywhere - even a screwdriver just in front of his barefoot. Tall wooden beams were supporting the high ceiling, the numerous thick cables and chains laced around them hanging down here and then. On the far left, the biggest chimney the boy had ever seen and at the back, facing him, a flight of stairs leading to a balcony with several plain doors. The entire workshop was basically made of metal, leather and wood, clear and warm and very beige. 

A Blacksmith's Workshop. 

The boy jumped in surprise when a fire burst up in the chimney, his toes knocking off the screwdriver, his hand accidentally hitting a table. He let out a little yelp of pain accompanied with a swearing unknown to the city. Swearing which ended quickly when a sharp knife cut the air in front of him as well as a strand of hair and landed with a bright sound in the wall behind him. The boy's eyes, wide with panic, shot up to the balcony. Someone was standing there, readying another knife.

"Who are you?!"

* * *

**The Day before Mist Night:**

Free Blacksmith were rare in Villetempest, and Keith perfectly knew it. Most of them were working for the government, taken away from their beloved Workshop - their Homes and kingdoms - by the Government Officers. The only thought of an empty Workshop was making Keith's blood boil inside his veins. How many of those were now forsaken, bereft from their owners, cold and inactive? It was unthinkable to deprive a Blacksmith from their Workshop, or a Workshop from their Blacksmith, but since Mayor Zarkon was ruling this town, things that were sacred weren't anymore. And things that weren't sacred had become untouchable, like the Mayor Himself and his clique. 

Keith strolled into Wail Street's market, making his way into the crowd, glancing at the displays from time to time. He stopped in front of a fruit seller, looking at the red apples. He took one in his hand, turned it around to check it wasn't spoilt. 

"Keith! Still here?" the vendor called out with a laugh. 

Keith returned a death glare. Most people were betting on how long he would last before being taken by the Government Officers like the other Blacksmiths, but the young man had promised himself he would never surrender, even chained and on his knees, dragged away by the officers up to the basement of Castleglace to work with his fellows on suiting up an army for a war against who-knows-who. 

"Still here," he answered coldly. 

"They went to your place this morning, huh?" There was no animosity, just curiosity. A bit of amusement also. People never realized how Blacksmiths were important until they were all gone. Keith's Kind was always considered as the oddballs of society - fortunately they weren't the only ones.

"I kicked their asses away," Keith shrugged, taking another apple. He felt a bit talkative. "They come every week or so, always with the same offers then the same threats."

"Got the weapons out?" 

Another shrug. "Not yet." He paused, picked a third apple. "I'll take these."

"Then it will be five dans," the vendor nodded, opening a paper bag in which Keith dropped the fruits before handing him the money. "Thanks."

The young man took his purchase and walked away, biting in an apple absent-mindedly. The vendor had reminded him of the awful truth: the Security Officers would soon accompany the Government Officers during their visits and they would surely use actions upon words to get him out of his Workshop. Keith was well-aware and was preparing himself since Thace had been taken away by force. His eyes wandered on the paved street in front of him, as he suddenly got nostalgic. Thace had taught him it all: it had been five years since Thace had left his workshop for Casteglace's basement. He had resisted for so long, had fought and fought for his freedom, had warned Keith again and again against the government and told him at least a million time never to surrender himself willingly. But in the end, he had been taken away too, leaving the fifteen-year-old Keith without his mentor. 

Keith had seen Thace once or twice afterwards, but the Blacksmiths of Castleglace were always busy working, or they were hiding, too ashamed of the government dogs they had become. They were shadows of themselves, unable to be at ease since they weren't in their Workshop anymore. 

Blacksmiths were like battery powered engines: they could go out for days but they needed to recharge in their Workshop eventually, to stay in there for days working before getting out again. 

They only obeyed to their creative impulses and could completely forget the rest of the world and especially society's rules when they had an idea, which was making them very weird to other people's eyes. Also the fact that they always carried some tools on them, always smelled like smoke or soot, always had various stains on their clothes and skin and were never as eager to do something as when it implied getting back to their Workshop. Given the fact that very few people were invited there, Blacksmiths really weren't the most sociable people in town. For society, they were weird and different. 

Not as weird and different as some other Kinds, but still incomprehensible. 

Keith breathed in, the fresh morning air filling up his lungs. The city was so lively today because of the market, and maybe because it would be Mist Night tonight. Before Zarkon, people would gather under the moonlight on the rooftops and reunite with their families and friends for a picnic. After Zarkon, no one was allowed to get out until dawn and no one was allowed to open their door to anyone. At the beginning, people had found that rule stupid and disobeyed, but the patrols were there to put in jail anyone breaking the law. During a time, it had been a little game amongst teenagers, a test of courage, getting out during Mist Night without being caught, but everyone had been caught and punished, and it wasn't a game anymore. 

All of this had happened before Keith was born: he had never known the time Before Zarkon though Thace had told him so much about it. 

But he knew that all had changed, and not for the best. 

He suddenly got caught by the crowd gathering and whispering, having found a subject of interest. The young man navigated between the people to get closer to the center of attention, listening to the conversations.

"It's a Gardener!" a girl murmured to her mother next to him.

He winced, guessing that nothing good expected was happening to the Gardener. Gardeners were even weirder than Blacksmiths for people. They spent their time taking care of flowers, earth, plants, their Gardens. They were the nature-lover equivalent of Blacksmiths, all in all - except that they were way more sociable. You didn't find them often in cities, they usually lived in forests, rock deserts, meadows: everything but cities in fact. Some were trying to make towns greener, to plant flowers in the pavement, to grow up trees on rooftops, and they were always dressed in brown cotton tuniques and barefoot, with flowers or leaves on their clothes and body.

Weirder than Blacksmiths. 

Keith finally reached the center of the crowd, pushing away a man to have a better view. Right in front of him was a dark-skinned girl with golden eyes and short dark hair sprinkled with petals, crouching down to protect a tiny little blue daisy with her body. Two Security Agents were next to her, lashing her with their whips and Keith felt sorry for the Gardener. He wasn't going to step in though: he had enough troubles with the government not to interfere with them any further. If anyone tried to stop them, they would most likely be in big troubles too. 

It was painful to watch, but no one could do a thing. 

"Leave that flower alone!" the Gardener exclaimed, her voice filled with pain. 

"Get your bloody flower out of the pavement!" one of the Officers replied, hitting her once more. Before Zarkon, Gardeners' attempts to make cities greener were just watched with amusement, After Zarkon it was a forbidden and punished-by-the-law thing.

"No!" she cried out.

They hit, and hit, and hit again. Keith remained silent, feeling once again apart from the whispering crowd. His eyes met the Gardener's and for a second they both understood each other, how being part of a Kind made you automatically different and nowadays, a target of Zarkon. "I'm sorry" he mouthed silently. She simply smiled as an answer.

"What is so funny, kid?" an Officer grunted, kicking her sides.

She let out another yelp of pain, shaking her head and whimpering miserably. More than ever, Keith felt sorry for her, for not being able to help her. He hesitated to do something, to put himself in danger by interfering, but before he could decide anything, someone was already cutting through the crowd. His body moved on its own and stepped away from the newcomer's path, newcomer who went straight for the girl, determined. 

An Angel. 

His arrival completely froze the Officers. Tall, wide, round, a calming softness emanating from him, the Angel had a brown-skin and gentle hazel eyes. Keith recognized him instantly: he worked at the Havensafe Hospital and was probably the most loved Angel in the entire town. He kneeled down next to the girl, whispered softly in her ear then kindly carried her bridal style. The Officers had taken a step back. Nobody could touch an Angel without provoking the anger of the crowd. Angels were generous, selfless and kind people who worked at Hospitals and went to help whoever was in need. They were calming, appeasing, reassuring and reliable. And loved, very much loved. 

"I'll be taking her to my Hospital," he said, and the Officers could only nod. "And can you leave that flower alone?" Another nod from the Officers. You couldn't decently say "no" to an Angel, especially an Angel surrounded by a crowd that could go wild to protect him at any moment. 

Keith waited until the same crowd began to scatter after the Angel's depart and ran to catch up to him. "Hunk!" he called out.

Hunk stopped and slowed down to allow Keith to walk next to him, smiling. "Hey, Keith!" he exclaimed cheerfully. 

Zarkon had made of the city a society in which Kinds were apart but that had also considerably closed the bonds within the Kinds and being a Blacksmith was dangerous enough for Keith to end up in an Hospital several times - leading him to meet and befriend Hunk. Angels and Blacksmiths had always had good relationships anyway, since Angels were healing reckless Blacksmiths and Blacksmiths creating tools for Angels, so the two of them had befriended quite quickly despite Keith’s lack of sociability. 

That was the reason Keith was out today: Hunk had ordered him a new briefcase a few days ago and he had just finished it last night. Hunk had a passion for engineering and he was probably the Angel who was ordering the most from Blacksmiths - that passion making him even closer to Keith. 

"Got your briefcase," he thus indicated, patting the bag that never left him. That big leather shoulder bag was part of a Blacksmith's outfit as well as the long brown coat with multiples pockets and the fingerless gloves Keith was always wearing. They said a Blacksmith’s suit was made of leather, metal and oil stains, and Keith was no exception.

Hunk's face lit up. "Great! Thanks, Keith." He glanced at the Gardener is his arms. "You can leave it at the reception desk, I have to take care of her."

"I'm sorry for her," Keith said, a way to say that he was sorry he hadn't done anything.

"Me too," Hunk answered. Unknown to Keith if he had gotten what he had really meant. Hunk could be really mysterious sometimes. "I wish we would go back to the time Zarkon wasn't there," he added with a sad smile. He wasn't born either during the Before Zarkon time, but the other Angels had most probably told him many things about it. And for an Angel, so helpful and caring, seeing that people's life had taken a bad turn since Zarkon was there was hard. "When Kinds weren't being put apart, when traditions were respected, when people felt safe."

"I wonder how it is, to feel safe," Keith sarcastically commented. "Blacksmiths are soon going to disappear from the city." A Blacksmith without a Workshop wasn't a Blacksmith. If he ended up in Castleglace, he wouldn't be a Blacksmith anymore, just a tool creating other tools.

"And Villetempest will lose another Kind," Hunk nodded, concerned. "It's not good. There are some Kind that Zarkon drove away even before we were born and some that gradually left the city because of him but most of them got under the government’s control like Blacksmiths." He thought about it. "We saw the disappearance of Architects, Pilots, Merfolks, Light-bearers, Street-Guardians, Doves, Librarians, Undertakers and…”

“Hackers,” Keith completed. 

“Yes,” Hunk said pensively. “Hackers.” He sighed. “There are also two Kinds that Zarkon got rid of before we were born.”

“He hates the Kinds,” Keith muttered, “if he can’t control them he scatters them. Even though he’s part of them. And he chased away or got the rest of his Kind living in the city under his control.”

“Leaders,” Hunk commented, “shouldn’t be tyrants.”

“Tell it to Zarkon,” Keith growled as they reached the Havensafe Hospital’s doors. He fell silent once they entered. Hospitals belonged to the Angels and the wounded or the ill, so he was feeling like an uninvited guest here. Many people greeted Hunk warmly, and Keith felt out of place again. 

“Well,” Hunk smiled gently, “see you!”

The Blacksmith answered with a nod and turned toward the reception desk while his friend was making his way toward the elevator. The Gardener would be alright. Being in contact with an Angel was already speeding up one’s healing process and Hunk would take good care of her. She would be able to go out of the hospital in a few hours - but of course Hunk would keep her in until tomorrow because he was always too worried.

He took the briefcase out of his bag. The receptionist was already giving him a weird look. “For Hunk Serafiel,” he said, putting it on the counter.

“And you are…?” she asked but it was pure formalities. She didn’t want him in that Hospital any longer, him and his weird outfit, his too serious expression, his out-of-place aura, his burnt charcoal scent. Keith felt a kind of frustration. Hospitals were the Angels’ Homes, did she even know that as a normal citizen, she was as out of place as he was?

“Keith. Keith Fireblade.”

She didn’t care about his name, that she scribbled on a piece of paper. She only wanted him out because his intense gaze and visible difference was making her uncomfortable. “Residence and profession, please,” she said, out of habit.

“Lithium Workshop, Polstead Road.” As usual, he felt a bit like a liar. His residence wasn’t exactly Lithium Workshop anymore now. He had managed to reunite his Workshop and Thace’s into one unique place, and was working hard to find all the forsaken Workshops of the town and link them using the network of tunnels stretching beneath the city. “Blacksmith.” As if it wasn’t obvious enough.

“Alright,” she said, taking the briefcase. “You can go now.”

Finally. He turned his heels and hurried away from the Hospital, from the people, from where he didn’t belong. 

He finished his apples on his way back to his workshop. That would be his meal for today. Usually, he would have stopped at a café to eat properly but this morning’s events had sickened him and anyway, he didn’t really care about his health. He only wanted to go back to his Workshop. To go back home. That was the only place where he truly felt safe and at ease.

Plus, he had begun to work on a sumptuous lance and he couldn't stay away from it any longer: it was as if the weapon was calling him and he just couldn’t resist it. 

He walked quickly along Wail Street, pausing just the time to buy more fruits, then nearly ran up to Polstead Road. Passerby gave him a weird look but he didn’t care. He used to care, but not anymore. Even if he was acting like a normal person he wouldn’t be normal to other people’s eyes, so he had stopped being self-conscious since a long time ago. 

“Fireblade!” someone called out and he stopped, recognizing the voice.

He took a deep breath and turned around, his eyes cold like ice. “Sendak,” he said as calmly as he could. Zarkon’s personal guard and the Captain of Villetempest’s army. He had been nagging Keith for months through letters, enjoining him to leave his Workshop for Castleglace. He had also sent him the Government Officers so many times yet they had seen each other only twice, both times being unexpected encounters in the city.

“How are you, my friend?” Sendak asked with a crocodile smile, and Keith innerly grimaced. They weren’t friends. Far from it, actually. 

“I was better before seeing your face,” he dropped dryly. 

The Captain only laughed. “Still not decided to join your comrades at Castleglace? The ice palace is way more comfortable than your little workshop in Polstead Road, though.”

Another inner grimace. Zarkon had become the leader of the city because he was immensely rich, powerful, and had set his hands on the best material in the world: the Permafrost. The ice no fire could melt, harder than diamond, indestructible, resistant yet light as a feather, impossible to destroy or damage. Zarkon had only managed to build the five imposant ice buildings in the city by kidnapping all the Architects of the city - and Architects couldn’t create anything else than buildings. Keith was suspecting that he was using the Blacksmiths to try to create weapons and armors of Permafrost, as an army with a Permafrost equipment would be invincible. 

Wouldn’t work. Keith knew too well that no Blacksmith could ever tame the Permafrost. Blacksmiths were made of fire, leather, metal, wood and oil. Dealing with ice wasn’t their cup of tea and ice didn’t like them either - the young man had even promised himself never to set his foot on a frozen lake again.

“Nah”, was Keith’s only answer. Nothing else to say. He would never willingly go to Castleglace, not for all the gold of the world. 

“Really?” Sendak was keeping his friendly smile nonetheless. As if he was sure that anyway, Keith would end up there. 

“I already told you many times where you can put Castleglace,” Keith answered, feeling the urge to ask Sendak if he could just go fuck himself. He clenched his fists and turned away, walking again toward his Workshop. 

“Such a shame!” Sendak exclaimed behind him. 

Keith raised his middle finger at the Captain of Villetempest’s armies and kept on walking.

* * *

 

**Mist Night:**

A Blacksmith’s Workshop wasn’t only their home. It wasn’t only a workshop, the place where they forged things and lived. It was a Home. Society was divided in two categories: the normal citizens and the Kinds. There were twenty different Kinds, with each specific Abilities linked to their function that one could also call “magic”, and a Home. Almost every Kind had a Home and it was more than just a house. 

It was a part of them. 

Every single thing belonging to Keith’s Workshop belonged to him, and thus was under his control. Literally. 

Before going to sleep, he only had to think about it for the door to lock itself, the lights to go off and the windows to close. He quickly fell asleep: it was Mist Night after all. The Mist was one of the four Veils, a mysterious thing that was only a visible substance for most people, and that had various effects on the Kinds’ minds. The Mist was calming and relaxing, so Keith liked Mist Night. He was always sleeping better during Mist Night. He also knew that the Officers were wary of the Mist because nobody quite understood what it really was, so they would leave him alone the next morning.

He didn’t sleep long, though. 

When his door was opened, it was like some kind of electric signal shot through him and he immediately woke up, jerking out of bed to perceive who had intruded his Workshop. 

It was normally impossible to enter. The door was locked and anyway no one could unlock it unless Keith was allowing it. Needing no light to navigate into his Home, the young man crept from his room up to his workplace, calling his knives up to him. He could feel the intrusion up to his bones, the fact that a stranger was there, even if the stranger didn’t seem very dangerous or with malicious intentions. If he had tried anything else than finding a switch (though there was no switch) he would have been killed by one of the sharp tools lying on the tables without even seeing where it came from. 

Keith was at the top of the stairs, watching without really seeing the intruder. It was time to get answers. He blinked and the light appeared, brightening up the whole place and revealing the stranger’s traits.

A sun-kissed skin, dark eyes tinted with blue and short chocolate hair, tall and slim, rugged clothes, a missing shoe, the stranger discovering the Workshop with awe really didn’t look any dangerous. He even had some kind of solar and attractive charm, but Keith quickly brushed it off because that guy also looked very stupid. Plus, he had intruded his Workshop. 

He lit up the fire with a breath, surprising the brunette who jolted, hit a forgotten screwdriver as well as a table and yelped in pain. Pathetic. Keith raised his hand and threw a knife, the perfectly aimed blade cutting a chocolate strand before landing into the opposite wall. The stranger’s gaze, panicked, shot up and met Keith’s who readied another knife. 

“Who are you?” he said. 

There was then a radical change in the guy’s expression. It became seriously panicked, as if the stranger was realizing that his life was on a thread. 

“Oh, ---!” he swore once more, that swearing that Keith had never heard before, leading him to think that the guy was an outsider: that curse wasn’t from Villetempest and his clothes were too different from the ones the Villetempesters usually wore. “Shoot, I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m so sorry, gosh, so sorry, I swear I never meant any harm, I was just looking for a place to hide, I mean, yeah, I’m sorry, don’t kill me please, I-”

Keith’s eyes narrowed. Too noisy. He threw the other knife and the stranger dived under a table with a yelp of panic. The Blacksmith raised an eyebrow and the table moved aside brutally, exposing the intruder once more.

“What are you doing here?” Keith repeated, threatening. He walked down the stairs quickly, and the chains hanging out from the ceiling moved swiftly to restrain the stranger and prevent him from moving. The young man yelped once more, trying to free himself but unable to. Keith only stopped once they were only a few inches from each other, cursing the fact that the guy was a bit taller than him. “No one should be able to enter that place without my authorization.” His eyes were dark and intense. “So how did you get there?”

The brunette blinked. “Oh- oh.” He blinked again, and gulped. “Oh no.” Keith frowned, slightly cocking his head to the side. “Oh no, you’re hot,” the intruder said. 

Keith managed to hide his surprise and replied with a not-amused-and-tired-of-your-shit look as cold as ice. Two knives flew up to the other’s throat who let out a strangled cry.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, I’ll talk!” he exclaimed, desperate. “I don’t know how I got here, I was kind of lost - and I still am - I was trying to run away because… because…” His eyes searched as if they were looking for the answers somewhere. “Because I had to run,” he improvised, “and I asked the Mist where I could go and it lead me there and opened the door for me and-”

“The Mist?” Keith cut him off. 

“Ya,” the guy let out miserably.

It all clicked in the young man’s head and realization struck him. “You’re a Talker.”

“Ya?” the Talker emitted, unsure. 

Keith had a half-disgusted, half-fascinated look and the chains retreated up to the ceiling, dropping the stranger on the floor. “If you try to Talk, I’ll kill you,” he warned, while the other nodded faintly, getting on his feet.

A Talker. 

There were no Talkers anymore in the city. Zarkon had taken them all even before Keith was born, and none had come here since then. Talkers were part of the Kinds, but they were not really liked by any of the Kinds. Not really liked by anyone, in fact. They had the ability to speak the secret language of things, to Talk with basically anything, to make anything obey them. They were incredibly powerful and that was why most people were wary of them. 

Plus, they didn’t have a Home. For the other Kinds, they were the weirdest of them all. 

Now that Keith had realized it, it was clear. That guy had surely arrived in the city that night and was fleeing from the patrols, then had been guided up to Keith’s Workshop by the Mist, which had also unlocked the door. Of course, no one could open a Home’s door without its owner’s authorization, but not nothing. The Veils surely could. The elements surely could. And a Talker asking those things to open the door should also be able to make their way into a Home uninvited. 

Weirdoes. 

Plus that guy was talking way too much, which was apparently the biggest characteristic of a Talker, according to Thace, and Keith had the living proof of that fact under his eyes. 

“Okay, I know how you got here now,” he declared, not precising that it didn’t make the stranger less suspicious to him. “But what are you doing here, Talker?” he asked. 

The Talker still had the knives against his neck, so he gulped down carefully before answering. “Well, as I said I was running away and I needed a place to hide, I was running away from-” He paused. “From something dangerous but I don’t know what exactly, but well I-”

“Shut up,” Keith dryly said and the Talker shut it. He really talked too much. “Why did the Mist led you there?” he mumbled. He already had enough troubles with the authorities to deal with hiding an annoying Talker from another city. He caught the gaze of the stranger on his face and glared daggers at him. “What are you looking at?”

“Oh,” the brunette spluttered, embarrassed, “sorry, really, sorry, I just… I mean, you’re really hot, you know? Your mullet looks a bit stupid, but your face is really attractive and-”

“Shut up,” Keith cut him off, rather annoyed. And embarrassed. And his mullet wasn’t stupid. 

“Hey, stop cutting me off non-stop, mullet-boy!” the stranger shot back, looking a little angry. He really liked to talk, didn’t he? “I’m trying to explain myself here and I have two knives under my throat so if you please tried to be civilized-” 

Keith’s eyes were as dark as a stormy night sky, so the stranger calmly decided that it was more prudent to keep it shut for now. Plus, the knives were still there.

“What are you doing here?” Keith asked pensively. He saw the Talker opening his mouth and decided to prevent all useless flow of speech caused by confusion. “I mean, in that city,” he added, readying himself for the flood of words that would soon came out. “In Villetempest.”

The Talker mouth’s closed down. Strangely, he remained silent for a while, his expression becoming completely lost. He narrowed his eyes, looking for an answer. “What was I doing here, already?” he muttered. “Why did I come here? Where do I come from?” 

“What are you playing at?” the Blacksmith angrily exclaimed. 

The Talker was really lost, now. “I can’t remember,” he whined. “Again. I don’t remember anything.” He mouthed something but no sound came out. The stranger let out a desperate noise. “No! I forgot again!” 

“You… forgot?” Keith was beginning to understand what was going on. Why the Talker looked so lost and confused. The answer was simple: he was amnesiac. Great! Not only had Keith gotten a Talker in his place during Mist Night, but an amnesiac and outsider Talker nonetheless.

The knives dropped on the ground and the stranger massaged his neck, his eyes dark and concerned. “Yeah. That happens,” he said, sad. “Especially when I Talk too much.” The capital letter was perceptible in his voice. 

“Are you amnesiac?” the young man asked carefully. “Did you hit your head or something before arriving here?”

“No,” the brunette protested, before dropping his head with a sigh. “It’s just part of being a Talker. That sucks.”

Keith was really interested but tried not to show it. “Which means?”

“Which means it’s really shitty?” the stranger grimaced, unsure.

Great eyes roll from Keith accompanied with a mental facepalm. “No, I meant, what did you mean when you said it was part of being a Talker?”

“Oh, right.” There was a little moment of silence, an unusual silence, the young man realized. He had already gotten used to the Talker’s endless speeches. “So like,” the stranger went on, “we Talkers are supposedly really powerful and stuff, but that doesn’t come off without a price. I mean, we already don’t have a Home-” He paused, as if he was amazed by the fact that he had remembered that before shaking his head. “Well, yeah, we don’t have a Home, that and we all have a weakness, a problem. Some Talkers lack a limb, some are blind, some are deaf, some  are ill, that kind of stuff. Like a handicap.” 

Keith nodded. He had always wondered how Zarkon had managed to capture all the Talkers of the town if they were so strong, but he had now his answer. 

“My weakness is that I have memory losses,” the stranger explained. “Especially when I use my Ability a lot, I lose my memory and I can’t remember stuff. Sometimes it’s really a lot of stuff like right now, sometimes it’s just people’s names and what I was doing previously.” He looked even more desperate. “And how to Talk.”

“So you probably used your power before and you forgot things?” Keith summed up as the other nodded. Indeed, that sucked. 

“I’m here to do something important, though,” the young man commented sadly. “But I can’t remember what. It’s really important, really, but…” He didn’t end up his sentence, a gloomy look on his face. Keith realized that it didn’t suit him, this expression, and that a smile would fit him better. Stupid thought. Looking at him from close, he also realized that the stranger’s eyes were blue, a very dark blue, and that he had light little freckles looking like the petals in the Gardener’s hair. Another stupid thought. 

He sighed very deeply. Troubles, troubles, troubles. That guy was a real problem magnet and Keith was going to regret not kicking him out right here, right now, but he knew he couldn’t do it. He just couldn’t throw him right into Zarkon’s hands, especially if he had something important to do here. 

Plus, his Abilities could be useful, he thought, convincing himself that he was letting him stay for that reason rather than because the idea of him smiling with his freckles brightened by the sunlight was cute. And stupid. Troubles, troubles, troubles.  

“Oh, well,” he said a bit bluntly, trying to chase away the stupid and annoying thoughts nagging him, “welcome to my place.”

The stranger’s eyes lit up instantly. “You mean I can stay here?” he asked as if he had expected the whole time that he would be back outside the second Keith would stop being curious. 

“Yeah, if you learn to shut it from time to time,” the young man shrugged. “I’m Keith, by the way. Keith Fireblade. Blacksmith.”

“Keith?” the young man repeated, in a bit of a daze. “Sounds like ‘keys’,” he stupidly commented with a snort. 

He had tried to make a sharp comment but in fact, he was close to the truth. Keith had never really knew his parents, but a Blacksmith’s name had a symbolism and he was pretty sure that Keith was indeed inspired from ‘keys’. 

The Blacksmith rolled his eyes nonetheless. “Let’s see if yours is better, dumbass.”

“Hey, I’m not a dumbass!” the brunette protested. “Dumbass yourself!”

“Name,” Keith ordered, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. 

The stranger blinked. “I don’t have a name.”

This took the young man aback. “What?” He tried to find an explication, something, anything. “You mean, you don’t remember it?”

“Well, yes and no,” the Talker admitted. “Someone surely named me in the past but I don’t remember it because they never really Named me.” Seeing Keith’s confused expression, he explained more: “You know, Named me in the secret language of things and the Talk and that kind of stuff.”

“No one knows the secret language of things except Talkers,” Keith narrowed his eyes and shrugged in incomprehension.

“But I was never Named by a Talker,” the stranger insisted. “Else I would have a name and fuck, I would remember it, because the Talk is easier to remember than the normal language,” he argued. “Even if now I can’t Talk because I forgot how to do that, I can remember a few words and I’m sure I could remember my true Name.”

Keith suddenly remembered that indeed, the brunette had mentioned at least twice that he couldn’t Talk anymore, thus he couldn’t use his Ability anymore. He was quite useless to the Blacksmith, now, he noticed, disappointed, because it was totally the reason why he was letting him stay and not the other one with the vision of the sun on the golden freckled and the solar smile. “So you’re basically powerless?” he asked, hiding the bitterness in his voice which was, oh, such a hard thing to so since it was totally the reason why he was letting him stay and not the other one, mind you. 

“Hey, no!” the Talker protested, offended. “I mean, I don’t always need the secret language to use my Abilities!” He took a proud expression. “I could like, totally deviate any attack toward myself with just a word-”

“Oh, okay”, Keith nodded, and the lance he had just finished flew right into the stranger’s direction. 

“ARGH!” the brunette yelled, his voice filled with resentment and a lot of curses toward the merciless Blacksmith. “STOOP!”

And the lance stopped. 

Keith’s eyes went wide as the weapon clattered on the ground. He just couldn’t believe it. That lance belonged to him, to HIM but it had obeyed to a complete stranger instantly. It had stopped, simply and purely. 

“See? Easy peasy! I even remember the true name of that thing!” the Talker bragged before a confused look passed in his eyes. “Why did you do that?” he asked, suddenly angry. “You could have killed me!” 

“Hey,” Keith said, as suddenly he thought of something, “do you remember me? You used your power, but do you still remember me?” 

The stranger frowned again. “You’re the hot boy,” he answered, making Keith a little embarrassed (but not blushing, no, no). “No wait.” He was looking at the young man so intensely it was a bit unsettling. “Hot but with a fucking temperament. Keys. Keith.” His face lit up. “Keith! I do remember you!”

“So you lose memory even if you use your power a little?” the Blacksmith asked, curious and, he had to admit, a tad happy that the Talker remembered his name. 

The brunette’s expression darkened. “Well, giving a direct order to something requires more power than just asking or using the secret language. And sometimes, I can lose the memory of what happened a few moments ago when I use my power.” He tried to shrug it off though it was clear that he was saddened by his losses of memories. “Well, I remember what happened quickly afterwards, so it’s okay.” 

“I guess I should give you a name,” Keith declared, a bit to comfort him.

And it completely worked. The stranger was now beaming so much he looked like a lighthouse. “Yeah, come on!” He winked at him. “Something cool, pretty boy!”

“Stop with the stupid nicknames,” the young man replied sharply, looking around him for inspiration. An idea struck him. The guy had said that he needed a name in the secret language to be truly Named but right now, he couldn’t pick a name himself since he had forgotten that language. However, just a minute ago, Keith had clearly heard him say that he remembered the true name - the name in the secret language - of something.

Stupid idea, but Keith wasn’t good at naming living stuff. Blacksmiths were only good at naming their creations, and the stranger wasn’t his creation by any mean. Thace and him used to have a dog, and after a nameless year, the poor creature ended up being named Bob, but only because it was their neighbour’s dog’s nickname.

“I’m going to call you…” His eyes wandered on the weapon on the ground next to him, his most recent creation. “Lance.” He then  looked at the stranger. It kind of suited him. 

“Lance,” the brunette repeated with a dreamy expression. “Yes, I like it.” He closed his eyes. “I remember the name of that thing in the secret language, so I guess I could name myself.” He muttered something then opened his eyes, visibly pleased. “Yeah! I have a name!” A big, bright smile made its way to his lips just as the fire went a bit stronger, lighting up a soft golden spark on his freckles, sending shadows on his skin, from his dimples to the tip of his soft hair and brightening the dark blue of his eyes.

Keith forgot out to breath. 

His mind went blank for a second before he finally managed to regain his senses and his composure. “Okay, Lance,” he said, turning away, “I guess I can find you a place to sleep tonight, as long as you can keep it shut for more than a minute.”

He realized that his cheeks were red and decided that for his own good and the good of the whole humanity, the Talker should never know about that. 

“Oh, sure thing, thanks so much pretty boy, I-” Lance began happily before stopping and putting a hand on his mouth. “Oops, sorry.”

“But remember, I only let you stay because you can be useful,” Keith added. 

Not at all because he wanted to see him laughing under the sun. 


	2. Speech

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where things get out of the author's control and Lance visits Villetempest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heey! This chapter took me like, forever to write and edit because I worked hard on that one to get it as I wanted XD I was really into it and it kind of like got out of control.  
> Like really.  
> There surely is a lot of editing to be done but I got lazy toward the end, I was to eager to post the chapter X'D  
> Enjoy~

**Mist Night** :

Lance was looking at the ceiling in Keith’s dark room, lying on a still dusty mattress next to the Blacksmith’s bed. So much had happened today, yet he was only able to remember tonight’s events, from the moment he had entered Villetempest to now. 

He clearly remembered “waking up” just a few steps away from the tall city’s gates, his mind as blank as if the memories had been carefully cleaned and wiped away before his “awakening”. He could feel again the same confusion, hear once more the questions turning inside his head - “where am I? Who am I?” - and picture his wandering in the streets as empty as his head, seeking for answers. He had been so lost before meeting the Mist. So, so lost. To the point he couldn’t think rationally anymore and had ended up roaming into the city aimlessly like a ghost, waiting for the truth to come out. 

But it never came out.

Now that he thought about it, it had kind of felt like a birth, his awakening, a rebirth, like a baby coming to the world with most knowledge of it, except for his own identity.

Because he still knew some things. He remembered what was a city, what was a Talker, what was a Blacksmith, what were the Kinds, he remembered all the basic stuff you teach a kid, all that you learn about the world while growing up, but he couldn’t remember actually learning that. He couldn’t picture himself as a child, sitting behind a desk in a school, writing down his notes, listening to a teacher or a Scholar. He couldn’t.

In his mind, there was Keith, the Workshop, the fleeing from the Officers, the Mist, the empty streets, the tall gates and nothing before that. 

He closed his eyes, trying to search any clue into his failing memory, but his head soon began to ache. All was so blurry and so uncertain, and it felt like hitting a wall hard each time he tried to access anything that was before his arrival in Villetempest. He knew he was there for a special and important reason, something that had once filled him with determination and apprehension at the same that, something that he would be able to sacrifice everything for, but was unable to remember what. Some words flew inside his mind and he managed to catch some of them: “Permafrost”, “Talking”, “Zarkon”, but that wasn't helping. 

He grimaced and opened his eyes. What was Zarkon? The word “Permafrost” turned in his head a bit before he could remember what it was, however he was unable to get any information about that Zarkon, except that it was a person. So, who was Zarkon? 

His absolute lack of knowledge about the things he wanted to know the most was annoying. More than annoying, actually. 

It was scary. 

He didn’t have any marks, he didn’t have anything. Just a Name. 

For now.

Lance was terrified of losing his memory again, of forgetting everything and having to build himself from scratch once more: within him was the deep fear to have been Named before but having forgotten his Name too, washed away with everything else.

Amnesia was frightening. 

He shivered at the thought of being clueless and alone again like at the beginning of the night, then his eyes set on the sleeping figure next to him. Fortunately there was someone with him: he would never be able to survive on his own. Another person was an incredible source of information and a reminder, also. If Lance forgot anything, or if he didn’t know something, he could ask Keith.

Which was a pretty reassuring thought, in the midst of all those scary possibilities. 

He refrained a relieved sigh. About that Zarkon guy, he just had to ask pretty boy over here tomorrow. 

Now that he had managed to push his apprehensions and worries away for a while, his mind wandered toward the Blacksmith, flashing images of him in his head, and especially the first clear and close sight of his handsome face. 

Man, he was hot. 

Even with his eyes closed, Lance could picture him behind his eyelids: a fair skin kissed by scintillas of charcoal here and there, intense almond-shaped crystal clear eyes piercing your soul to the core, a slim yet athletic body sculpted by years of crafting and smithing, soft raven black hair with messy wild locks - too bad for the mullet - and an ineffable, breathtaking face blessed with the gods, Keith had it all, especially all to be more than his type.

Plus, he had Named him. 

Even if the thought of having been Named was throwing sparkling bubbles of joy into his chest, it was also bringing some grimmer things. Like, let’s say, its consequences and the fact that he had kept silent about it.

Lance was usually pretty talkative and loquacious but there were still things that he was keeping to himself, sealed tight behind his lips. Things he remembered and that no one would like to hear, and especially not Keith, things that he would have never wanted to remember in the first place. If the Blacksmith learnt about what Naming a Talker really meant, above it all, he would kick him out right away. 

The Talker closed his eyes again, trying not to think about that, but the thought was nagging him. He could hear the little voice in his head, reminding him of all those dark memories he had kept shut, of that  _ white lie _ made up by pure fear of being thrown out by the only person he knew, of the consequences he would face one day for it because he wasn’t above them. He prayed for that secret to stay hidden forever, but he knew would have to tell Keith, eventually. And that would surely be the end of whatever kind of bond he had with the Blacksmith though he would swear that he had forgotten about it. 

Which was true: when Keith had Named him, he had forgotten a lot about Naming. Like the traditions coming with this ritual, the precautions, the  _ details  _ and especially the most important: the consequences. He had just been too eager to get a Name. An identity. He just wanted to become someone, to stop being a stranger for himself, to  _ exist _ .

He wasn’t acting like it probably because he was used to it now, but being amnesiac was fucking  _ scary. _ Not really being sure about everything you were, not being able to access this unreachable part of your mind where all the answers laid, being only able to rely on the feelings, impressions and few uncertain memories that might just be your own imagination, that was  _ frightening _ .

He felt like a blank sheet, like an empty bottle, like a boy looking for his toys in a too clean house with a paper bag on his head.

He was so lost when he had met Keith. He had no marks, no anchor, nothing, just the Mist and a few memories. 

A desire to be Named, also. That was all that had mattered: being Named before losing it all once again. 

Then he had become Lance, had remembered, and had carefully chosen to keep some stuff about Talkers, about Naming secret. He felt a bit guilty about that, horribly guilty actually, but he tried to comfort himself by thinking that he didn’t have the obligation to tell his saviour everything.

Truth was, he kind of did. Trusting Keith, making him trust him, giving him as much info about himself as he could, just at least for someone to  _ remember _ him if he couldn’t remember it himself, that was compulsory. There was a part of “must tell him everything” in all that, a part Lance couldn’t ignore and stay mysterious and secretive.

But not everything  _ everything,  _ as in not all the details of the Talkers’ rituals.

Most of the time, he had to spit out things, to tell them, to express them: he was like that. He had probably been raised like that, unless it was just because he was a Talker, but still, he had things he preferred not to tell, and he never had the obligation to be completely honest either. Talkers lied. They were really good, probably the best at lying. They knew the smooth words that could hide others, how to convince people that they held the right answer while they didn’t, how to make up a realistic story for scratch or to fill in some blank in a truth. He didn’t like lying and actually felt really bad hiding things to Keith, but he repeated innerly that one white lie or two wasn’t going to kill him, and it wasn’t like he was  _ telling  _ the lie, anyway. 

He was just keeping quiet about some stuff. The Blacksmith didn’t even suspect him since he didn’t know about those stuff.

Though he was telling himself that, he was just lying to protect himself from the devouring flood of worries, guilt and anxiety threatening his brain.

He swore again, that word coming right from his unknown hometown. He didn’t even remember where he was coming from, what was the name of his city, but he did remember some things, like the dialect, the fashion, the little habits, the main colors of the buildings - blue and turquoise - and some traditions. He remembered roofs of glass, bridges thrown between high towers, a little flower shop which sold pretty heliotropes and above all, a dark, dark room in which he had most likely spent a very long time. 

And some feelings with it, linked to that room, that obscure part of his past he couldn’t remember either.

Unpleasant ones. 

He shivered and let out a long, desperate sigh. “I feel like trash,” he muttered, turning on the mattress. 

Keith was already awake, or he was a light sleeper, because Lance immediately felt something flicking his forehead. “Shut up,” the black-haired boy then growled.

“Sorry,” Lance whispered. He wanted to stop, but it was like someone had opened a faucet in his throat. “I just… I just really feel bad because I can’t remember anything,” he admitted. 

There was the sound of something clinking, then a little fire lit up a candle, brightening the space between them. Keith was leaning toward him. His hair was a bit messy, savage, falling like a curtain on his forehead, where the clear gleam of his eyes pierced like sunray between clouds, and Lance licked his lips nervously before gulping down. Damn, couldn’t that guy stop being attractive for a second?

“What do you mean?” Keith asked, interested though aware that he was exposing himself to the rain of words to come. 

Lance managed to revert his attention back to his problems before drooling and sighed again. “I surely had a family. Friends. A house. A life.” He looked at Keith again. “A date, maybe. But...” His eyes wandered sadly toward the candle. “Now all is lost, all has disappeared. I can’t remember a single thing about my past. Just impressions, feelings, guesses. And even with that I feel like it wasn’t that good, but maybe I’m just thinking too much about it.” He had a humorless laugh. “I can’t even remember my own mother, how fucked up is that?”

“I can’t either,” Keith said sympathetically. 

That made Lance blink, surprised. “What?”

“Yeah”, Keith went on, visibly not very saddened by that fact. “I can’t remember my parents, I didn’t really know them.” He was apparently feeling talkative - which was good since he had such a sexy voice - so he kept on explaining. “I only know stuff because Thace told me about them. They were also Blacksmiths, apparently, but were taken away when I was two so-.”

“Thace?” Lance interrupted, curious. 

Keith’s expression darkened. “None of your business.”

That was quite cold and harsh, and the Talker felt hurt. He stayed silent for a moment - a miracle - before sitting up. He tried to find a good subject to talk about, that wouldn’t involve any death glare from the Blacksmith, and failed. He was feeling way too trashy himself for that. “I feel bad for all the people I knew and don’t remember,” he ended up saying. “Like: ‘hey, Lance!’ ‘sorry, who are you again?’ ‘I’m your girlfriend!’ ‘Erm, don’t remember it’.” A long sigh, once more. “I feel awful.”

“Hey, man, it’s not your fault,” Keith replied.

Lance grimaced. “Maybe I read too many romance novels before, but I have a feeling that if I had a girlfriend, it would be my fault for her.”

An amused smile passed on the black-haired boy’s lips, making the Talker’s chest warm up a bit. “You mean, the ‘I thought we were united by fate how could you forget me you jerk’ kind of girlfriend?”

“Did we read the same book?” Lance asked, incredulous. Keith looked embarrassed and averted his look without answering, which pretty much said it all. “Wait, did you also read ‘ _ Life and fate next door’ _ ?” he asked enthusiastically, suddenly remembering a title. Then his happy expression broke down. “Why can I only remember the useless stuff?” he whined.

“Because you’re dumb?” Keith proposed. This was his revenge for admitting he liked romance novels. No one should know about that and still be alive. 

Lance smacked his pillow in the Blacksmith’s head. “Hey!” Then he realized what he had just done to mister irritable lone wolf and put a hand on his mouth. “Oops, I’m sorry, I-” The same pillow jerked out of his hand and ended up right in his face before he could finish his sentence. “Aoutch!” he growled, pushing it down. 

“You asked for it,” the black-haired boy justified, earning a mecontent look. 

“No I didn’t, mullet-boy,” Lance groaned. He got his pillow in the face again, as a reminder that Keith was not to be called ‘mullet-boy’. “Not my fault if your mullet is stupid!” he complained just before the pillow literally smacked him down on the mattress.

“Are you done being dumb?” the Blacksmith asked, annoyed. 

“Yes,” Lance emitted from under the pillow which fell next to his head. 

“Then maybe you could sleep,” he concluded, turning around. “Or just let me sleep at least.”

The Talker bit his lower lip in a pout. He was already missing having his attention focused on him and hearing his voice, even if it was just to argue. Damn, he wanted to talk more. His throat was buzzing with the need to speak and he gulped down the feeling with difficulties.

He sighed and readjusted his pillow beneath their head, his eyes once more focused on the ceiling above him. What was he going to do tomorrow? That was a good question. He couldn’t just lay around while Keith was doing his stuff. He might not even been able to stay there, he thought with a shiver, knowing that was the most probable option. He had something really important to do in that town, maybe even with a precise timing, he couldn’t be inactive, and he couldn’t afford to end up alone again either. If only he could tell Keith what he had to do there to convince him to help him more… but he didn’t know anything.

All the answers were in his memories. But he couldn’t access them.

“Why am I so stupid?” he whispered to the darkness. “Why can’t I remember anything about the reasons of my presence here? Why can’t I do anything?” he added, his voice a bit strangled. 

“Don’t sweat it,” Keith answered, making him jump in surprise. “I mean, there’s nothing you can do  _ right now _ so just sleep and we’ll see about that tomorrow.”

The brunette blinked, all his troubles wiped away by a single thought.

Had he heard right? Had Keith really said:  _ “we” _ ? Was he really going to help him and not just let him stay for the night? 

The Talker felt his cheek heating up and a big grin made its way to his lips. “Thanks,” he said. 

“Just stop smiling like an idiot,” the black-haired boy muttered.  

“Yeah, sure,” Lance nodded, still smiling broadly. Feeling better, he closed his eyes and let himself perceive the appeasing presence of the Mist, his first friend here, whispering him words of encouragement from behind the window. As one of the Kinds, the Veils had also an effect on him, stronger since he could talk to them. As soon as his attention got onto the Mist, he felt a deep inner peace settling in his heart. 

**_He’s reliable. He’s strong. I could have taken you to a Hospital but there are too many random citizens: it wouldn’t have been as safe. You’re safer here than anywhere else. His door was locked, but it was open to you._ **

It was nice to hear the secret language of things, because it always meant much more than the normal language. It was so much deeper and so much more powerful. Too bad he could barely speak a few words right now: that was probably the greatest loss in all his forgotten memories. However, though he didn’t remember how to speak it, he could understand it just fine - which was comforting him. 

**_He’s acting tough but he already appreciates you. He’s like a rose, beautiful and trying to push others away, but worth it if you get past the thorns. I know you want to get past the thorns._ **

There was a glint of amusement in the Mist’s voice - well it wasn’t exactly a voice, more like something Lance was perceiving, but he couldn’t define it otherwise. 

_ He Named me _ , the Talker answered mentally, knowing that he would still be heard.  _ How could I not want to get past the thorns?  _

The Veils were able to understand the normal language: they were so much more than what people, even amongst the Kinds, thought they were. You had to be a Talker to actually get their importance and their power.

**_You didn’t really think about it when you asked him to Name you, right? You chose your true name but he was the one suggesting the idea so it’s just as if he had Named you. Usually, the Namer gives the Name in secret language, and the Named choose the usual name, but here it was the contrary, which makes it even more personal since you picked your true name after his proposition._ **

_ I had forgotten about the… details coming with that, _ Lance admitted.  _ It’s better if he doesn’t know about it either. He’s a freaking fortress. He would kick me out. _

**_Are you scared?_ **

_ About him kicking me out in an apparently quite dangerous city I know nothing about when I have something important to do there? Damn yeah. _

**_About losing him._ **

Only a Veil could manage to put a Talker at a loss of words. 

* * *

**Early morning** :

“Sooo, what do you usually do of your days?” Lance asked, finishing his breakfast - he hadn’t realized how hungry he was before. 

He was sitting in front of Keith around a wooden table, the food scattered between other tools. The Blacksmith was half-eating, half-cleaning the tools, already looking at his previous creations.

“I work,” he answered absentmindedly. He picked up an unfinished dagger, tested it’s weight, put it back down with the promise to work on it later.

The brunette bit his lower lip. “Oh, right. Okay. Nice,” he shrugged. “You work all day. Sure. Blacksmith.” 

“Yeah,” Keith nodded, not really paying attention.

The Talker felt neglected and pouted. “Nice, and what am I supposed to do meanwhile, mec?” The black-haired boy snapped out of his thoughts and his eyes locked onto Lance’s face so swiftly he jolted. “Wow!”

“What did you call me?” Keith asked. He sounded curious, and Lance relaxed a bit. Cool, he wasn’t angry. Plus, his attention was back on him, reassuring him that he was more interesting than a piece of metal.

“Mec,” he repeated before frowning. “Must be a slang from my hometown. That means dude.”

“So you do remember stuff like that?” the Blacksmith questioned, leaning closer. Not every city had a slang… for example, Villetempest hadn’t. Maybe, by testing his memory from time to time, he could find out where he was from, though the idea was a bit unlikely. Keith had absolutely no experience with outsiders. Sure, they were different from Villetempesters so they were recognizable, but beside some Merchants and commercants from other towns, there were no tourists and foreigners in Villetempest. Plus Keith had never left the city, not even once: Zarkon simply forbid it. You had to get a pass to be allowed out and the said pass was extremely hard to get. Not that it was something everyone talked about: it was taught in classes, in secret because even the schools and their contents were controlled, in hope that one lucky student would manage to get one and see the world outside the city. 

The chances that would happen to Keith were zero. All in all, he had very few experiences of outsiders and other cities, so managing to guess Lance’s hometown? That would be a real miracle. 

“Well, yeah,” the Talker admitted. “I remember some stuff.” He winced. “Not useful, however. I still don’t know what the fuck I’m doing here.”

“True,” Keith nodded. “I should surely explain you what is going on in that city exactly and make you visit a bit. Maybe you would remember more.”

“Ooh, right!” Lance got up and slammed his hands on the table. He looked at Keith right in the eyes, suddenly a bit excited. “Who is Zarkon?”

The Blacksmith’s face closed down, dark and grim. “You know about him?”

Lance hesitated, seeing the change in his attitude. “No,” he carefully said. “Not really or I wouldn’t be asking. But I do remember that name. It has something to do with me being here, as well as the word ‘Permafrost’.” And “Talking” but that was not really something the brunette knew nothing about.

Keith grimaced even more. “Uh.” He didn’t say anything else, as if he was waiting for Lance to add something. The problem was, he had nothing else to say. That was all he could remember. So, very unusually, he stayed silent, fidgeting with a piece of bread until the black-haired boy sighed. “Okay, I’m going to tell you how fucked up Villetempest is.” A high stool slipped up to him and he sat on it, crossing his legs, biting his lip a bit too attractively to Lance’s taste. 

“Tell me,” he whispered, unable to tear his gaze off of the sexy mouth.

“What?” Keith blinked, surprised. 

The Talker jumped and flushed, embarrassed, before sitting back down. Even him knew that he was talking too much. “Sorry.”

“Okay.” The Blacksmith frowned then shrugged, brushing it off. “Twenty three years ago, the previous ruler of Villetempest was assassinated, as well as all the residents of his castle and his family. No witnesses, no survivors. The city was in complete chaos during a week before a new ruler appeared: Zarkon Grandeur, a Leader from the city of Galra, with enormous reserves of Permafrost. He already had his guard, his men, his ministers, everything. We didn’t even elect him: he imposed himself as mayor and changed it all in the blink of an eye.”

“I remember what the Permafrost is,” Lance said, watching with concern the dark expression on Keith’s face, “so I can see how powerful that made him and how he was able to impose himself so easily.”

“No you don’t see,” the black-haired boy replied. “You don’t und-” He stopped. Of course the Talker couldn’t understand, he didn’t remember anything. “Sorry,” he muttered. “It’s just that… Zarkon changed so many things in such a short period of time that Villetempest was already a completely different town when I was born. During the first year, he recruited all the Architects to build five buildings of Permafrost and kept them captive. He also tried to get all the other Kinds under his control and made sure they were cast apart from the rest of the society through speeches, posters, stuff like that, and also laws, as the one forbidding the Gardeners from planting flowers into the pavement.” He hadn’t chosen that example randomly: the bruised body of the Gardener in Hunk’s arms was still a vivid image in his mind. “He made his Officers do the job of the Kinds: the Light Officers are now the one lighting and blowing off the candlelights instead of the Light-Bearers. He also changed the traditions, for example by preventing people from coming outside during Mist Night.”

“That’s why the Mist was so lonely?” Lance talked, suddenly worried.

That took Keith aback a little. Talker stuff was as weird as ever. “Yeah,” he nodded. “Even before I was born, he captured most of the Talkers and the rest of them ran away. He did the same for Scholars.” His eyes wandered on Lance’s horrified face. “And for the rest of the Kinds, he gradually took them away from their Homes, under his control, unless they left the city. We lost a lot of Kinds, and the Blacksmiths are next on the list. I’m the last one,” he added with a sad smile. 

“It’s awful!” the Talker revolted, getting up brutally. “How can he do that? You guys have to work for that jerk, away from your Homes and feeling like you’re the weirdos of the town while he congratulates himself? That’s the worst!”

A million thoughts crossed Keith’s mind: that Lance couldn’t understand what it was to live through that, that he couldn’t understand the loss of your Home, that he couldn’t understand the feeling of being casted apart, but he remained silent, suddenly ashamed of himself. 

As he had told himself before, Lance couldn’t understand it because he didn’t remember anything.

But at the same time, Talkers were anyway casted apart even within the Kinds and they were from the start Homeless, so he was surely understanding the whole situation better than Keith himself. 

“Yeah,” he said softly. “That’s the worst. All the Kinds are working at Castleglace, the huge castle at the East of the city. Zarkon and his closest henchmen live in the old castle, and everyone suspects him to have killed the previous leader because of that. He’s so arrogant and full of himself, though he’s far from being a fool.”

“He’s powerful,” Lance whispered. “And feared. He knows he doesn’t need to stand in a castle of Permafrost not to be attacked by anyone.”

“Some tried, though,” the Blacksmith indicated. “But when the Security Officers began to arrest people randomly when they couldn’t catch the culprits, that stopped. There were some plans to free the innocent victims, at some point, but… it’s impossible.” Seeing the brunette’s interrogative look, he went on. “They’re locked in the Bastillon, the Permafrost prison at the North of Villetempest. It’s impossible to break in.”

There was a long silence, none of them really daring to say anything. The situation in Villetempest was disastrous.

“Alright,” Keith ended up saying, getting up. “Let’s show you around.”

* * *

**Morning:**

After Keith lent Lance his most not-Blacksmith-like clothes - though the Talker insisted to keep his old jacket - the two young men made their way out of the Workshop into Villetempest’s busy streets. 

“Pro tip one,” the black-haired boy said, watching as Lance was looking around with awe, eyes wide, mouth agape, “don’t look like a tourist if you don’t want to scream that you’re not from here.”

“Sorry,” Lance said, running an embarrassed hand in his hair. “I just… well when I arrived, it was nighttime and the Mist was all around, so you know, I didn’t really pay attention? It’s still a huge city and-”

“Pro tip two,” Keith cut in, “shut up.” The Talker closed his lips with a growl and a roll of eyes, making him smile. Then the brunette stopped and his mouth went agape, his eyes wide. “But I understand,” the Blacksmith went on, following Lance’s gaze. “You never saw Tourdevent before, so I get why it seemed so…”

“Wow.”

“Wow..” He surprised himself laughing a little. “Yeah.”

No one couldn’t be impressed by Tourdevent. No matter how many times Keith was seeing it, no matter if it was completely part of his daily life, he was still amazed by this complexe and crushing masterpiece of architecture. Tourdevent was the immense Permafrost tower in the middle of the city, wide and high, grazing the clouds and reflecting the light of the sun. It looked like it began in the depth of hell and ended up knocking at heaven’s doors, so important and strong the landscape would be changed if it wasn’t here. 

“It’s Zarkon’s immense pride,” the black-haired boy explained. “It took six years and all the Architects’ talent to finish it. We all thought he was going to live in it, and he surprised everyone by staying in the old castle.”

“What is it for, then?” Lance asked with curiosity. 

“Good question,” Keith shrugged. “It’s a symbol of his strength and authority over the city, but it must have another function.” He narrowed his eyes. “I heard once that the most dangerous or valuable criminals were imprisoned here.”

“Can I say that it’s really a waste of Permafrost?” the Talker commented, raising an eyebrow. 

This really made Keith laugh. “You can. It’s a complete waste.”

They strolled into the city, while the Blacksmith discreetly described or commented some parts they were seeing. Many people were looking at them strangely - a sociable Blacksmith? Impossible! - but no one seemed to really pay attention to them. Keith was still trying to keep it low: if they were noticed by some Officers… it wouldn’t end well. 

“I mentioned them earlier and you didn’t react,” he began, deciding to warn the brunette about it, “so I assume you know what the Officers are?”

Lance nodded. “Yeah. I think every city has its Officers? They’re the direct agents and workers of the government, something like that.”

“Right, and here, they’re like the pest so be careful,” Keith concluded. “They all wear a uniform so you’ll spot the Security Officers easily. We’ll avoid those ones, they don’t like me.”

“Why?” the Talker asked though Keith had hoped he wouldn’t. 

“I told you I was the last Blacksmith,” he gritted his teeth. “They’re coming every week to convince me to leave my Workshop. In a month or so, they’ll drag me to Castleglace by force.”

Lance looked appalled. “And you’re okay with that?”

“Of course not,” Keith shot back, dryly. “But what can I do? I fought against them to delay the deadline during my whole life. I can’t do more than that.”

The brunette had a concerned and dark expression on his face. He didn’t reply, maybe because there was nothing to say, for once. The Blacksmith decided to drop the subject. It was painful to think of Thace, the ghost that Thace had become by being forced to work for Zarkon, and it was as painful to think that his own parents were in Casteglace’s basement, wondering how their only son was doing, if he was eating well, how he looked like, and if their sacrifice had been worthy.

They had accepted to go to Castleglace and in exchange, Zarkon had agreed to leave Keith alone for twenty years. And strangely enough, he had held his promise, probably because he had forgotten all about his existence. 

But now, the black-haired boy he didn’t have much longer before joining the rest of his Kind. 

“A month, yeah”, he repeated pensively. He was resigned, now. He had made up his mind long ago, when Thace had been taken away. He knew that he couldn’t fight forever. He was alone against the government. He was completely powerless. The harsh realization had hit him right in the face when he was fifteen: now he was preparing himself mentally for the rest.

“Y-you mentioned five Permafrost buildings, right?” Lance’s voice was a bit hesitant, because obviously he was trying to change the subject. “I only know three of them. What about the two others?”

Keith appreciated the fact that he didn’t ask more questions, that he didn’t attempt any contact, that he didn’t move, just played his “tourist” role. The Talker was annoying, nosy, noisy, but he knew to respect people’s private sphere. 

Or at least Keith’s.

“Oh, right,” he nodded. They walked into Wail street, incredibly different now that the market was over. Keith felt relief flushing through him at the thought of not having to be pressured by a noisy crowd, but suddenly remembered the incredible number of people gathering at Griffin Place to listen to the Speeches and his chest felt tight. “At the South of the city, you have the military barracks, called-” They were nearly at Griffin Place, now. He looked at his watch and his expression darkened considerably. “I need to show you something.”

It was a stupid decision but it was necessary.

“What?” Lance asked, suddenly alarmed. 

“Quiet,” Keith indicated, tugging his sleeve. They took a turn and entered Griffin Place, slipping discreetly into the mass of people pressed there, buzzing like a hive. In the center, on the high estrad, was a Government Officer. He was smoothing some papers, adjusting his necktie with a little self-satisfied smile, and was looking at his watch every two seconds as if he couldn’t wait for what would come next.

“What is going on?” the brunette whispered. He sounded worried. The Blacksmith couldn’t really blame him for that.

“He’s going to do a Speech,” he explained, looking at the Officer, his jaw tight. “Everyday, at ten, a Government Officer is talking from Zarkon to the citizens, to express his ideas once more and make some announcements.”

“I think in my city that happened from time to time when there was something important to say?” Lance said. 

“It’s every fucking day, dude,” Keith replied darkly. “And it’s so sick I generally avoid going there. Makes me want to throw up.”

“Sick?” he repeated. 

The black-haired boy didn’t answer. No need to. He would see soon how twisted this whole thing really was. A girl was soon dragged on the estrade by two Security Officers, tall, blond, her eyes deep purple and her face covered with make-up. She was dressed fancily, but her attitude was clearly defeated and scared. 

“Who…” Lance began, only to stop a second after. 

The Government Officer grinned and patted the girl’s head as if she was some kind of animal. She wasn’t handcuffed, but it was just as if. He leaned toward her and whispered some words in her ear. She jolted, panicked, obviously repressing a little yelp of fear, then nodded very quickly.

More people arrived, the crowd squeezing itself more for everyone to fit in, and Keith found himself pushed against Lance. He cringed, feeling people trying to shove him again, and pressed his body onto the Talker’s to protect himself. He generally disliked physical contact but he didn’t have much choice, and Lance was probably the only person here whose touch didn’t make him want to run away. 

Not at all, actually. 

He was feeling the brunette’s warmth beneath the fabric of his t-shirt, his skin and his muscles - he was really slender, but not frail, he could tell? - and strangely enough, he didn’t mind that. Flushing a bit at the thought, he quickly regained his composure and decided to go on with his guide’s role.

Keith stood on tiptoe to whisper softly into Lance’s ear, cursing once more their height difference. “It’s a Diva. If you remember a Diva’s Abilities, you’ll get why she’s there. And if not, you’ll understand her role soon enough.”

He didn’t catch the blush creeping on the Talker’s cheeks up to the mentioned ear, he didn’t hear him holding out his breath until the top of his head was back against his temple, he didn’t notice the eyes following the moves of his lips.

“I don’t remember them all,” Lance finally gulped down, once he got back his capacity to think rationally.

“Then watch,” Keith murmured, “what Zarkon is doing to the Kinds.”

The show was beginning. 

The Officer began to talk, with an assured and confident voice, but of course only the people close to the estrade could hear him. He finished his first sentence, which, Lance guessed, was probably only greetings and formalities, then turned toward the Diva and gestured for her to speak. She gulped down nervously and stepped up.

“Hello and welcome, my friends!” she exclaimed, her voice so powerful it carried from the center of the Place to the streets nearby. “Thank you once again for coming here to listen to the Speech of our beloved Mayor Grandeur!”

Divas didn’t need anything to amplify their vocal cords. They could increase the volume of their voice at will, and be heard by an entire crowd without the need of any microphone, or speak only for their closest fans to hear.

Right here, right now, the Diva was the microphone.

She played the role of an object, was forced to be the voice of a Government Officer, to repeat his words for everyone to hear.

It was twister. It was sick. 

It was as if, with just that, Zarkon was saying “Kinds are just objects for the rest of the citizens to use”. It was graving in people’s minds the image of a Kind used as a tool for the government. 

Lance lowered his eyes. Keith had closed his.

No Kind could bear to watch this. 

They both wanted to run away from here as soon as they could, but they both knew that the Talker had to hear it. He had to see how rotten the city was. He had to see what Zarkon wanted to do of the Kinds.

He had to see that even if people didn’t seem so unhappy there, it was just a mask. 

The Officer talked again, but this time he gestured mid-sentence and the Diva repeated his words loud, following him like an amplified, mechanic echo.

“Everyone, today is another beautiful day! Our mayor loves all his citizens and wants to remind you all that he’s doing everything to improve the city at his best. He also wants to remind you to engage into Villetempest’s army, to serve your city right and protect your families! We’re not at war, but there are some ill intentioned cities out here who would be willing to take over our town. We must be ready for any eventuality, to defend ourselves against outsiders and our enemies.”

Lance’s mind was automatically descripting the speech, his affinity to words and talks kicking in.

Outsiders and enemies were in the same sentence, close to each other. That said a lot about Zarkon’s views on foreigners, and his will to create a feeling of unity under his rule amongst his citizens. By giving a common enemy or threat to people, it was easier to bring them together. 

“Our mayor needs any money you can give him! Don’t hesitate, donate for the government, donate for the ones who protect you and improve your life! Every rise on the taxes is necessary, every sacrifice will be rewarded. Prove him that you will follow him until death and that you will keep on looking up to his ideals. Mayor Grandeur wants a city to be united behind him, supportive, strong and powerful, ready to face any foe! Be the citizen he would want you to be!”

This was sickening. Zarkon was presenting himself as the savior of the city, no, the god of the city, without telling any disadvantage, without reminding them that they had never elected him. He was clearly a demagogue and a very good one unfortunately. 

“His ideas are the best. We have to move toward the future, we have to advance toward an era that our mayor knows best. Why complaining about the change of traditions? They were only burdening us and preventing us from seeing clearly our future! The Mist Night was dangerous, anyone could have been attacked at night, or endangered by this mysterious Veil, mayor Grandeur’s choice to keep everyone in was only made to protect you all!”

Lance felt even sicker. The Mist wasn’t dangerous. Generations of people had gone out during Mist Night and nothing had happened. Talkers were there to talk with the Veils and try to explain what they were to everyone else, or and Scholars could teach people about it, as well as teach them how to avoid getting hurt by getting out at night.

But in Villetempest, those two Kinds had been taken down first.

This wasn’t an accident. 

Zarkon had clearly targeted the two Kinds who could be a serious threat to his brainwashing of the city.

“Our mayor knows that all those traditions were created to maintain the Kinds’ superiority over us, normal citizens. He’s a Leader, but he knows it, and that’s why he came here. The Kinds and their Abilities are acting like powerful gods, as if they were able to control everything and as if they were above us just because they have their Abilities and we don’t. But they’re not! My friends, they’re not better than us!”

It was even worse knowing that it was a Diva, part of the Kinds, repeating every single word of that horrible speech. The Talker expected everyone to, logicall, roll their eyes at his statement - after all, everyone knew that the Kinds were a complete part of the society, accepted and integrated, simply different - but that did not happen.

Instead, people began to shout and yell insults toward the Kinds, the mob getting excited and angry.

“I now remember that a Diva can control a crowd’s feelings,” Lance whispered worriedly into Keith’s ear- who stiffened, feeling the hot breath on his skin. But now wasn’t the time to get flustered. 

“Our mayor first came here in hope to change the things. He wants to stop this Kind supremacy and create an egalitarian society, where normal citizens like us can live normally without ever feeling oppressed or disturbed! The Kinds are the main reason he’s here, and he’s here to make them change!”

That was clever. A lot of people obviously disliked Zarkon because he hadn’t done much good to the city by raising taxes, enrolling young men into the army, shutting down some businesses and stricting up the laws - Keith had told Lance a lot about it - so accusing the Kinds to be the reason he was there was giving one more opportunity for people to hate them.

They were a scapegoat, guilty of all the troubles of Villetempest. 

So even if people disagreed with Zarkon, they would resent the Kinds and agree with his anti-Kinds politics. 

It was sick.

“The Kinds should be at society’s service! They know it well, they should all work in Castleglace for the government, to help our city, to make it better, to improve the citizen’s lives and for everyone to live in harmony!”

As if the Kinds weren’t also citizens.

People cheered, applauded, talked between them, and Lance realized that it was such a great idea, to unite all the normal citizens against the Kinds, because the Kinds had always been different and somehow envied, and because they represented only two percent of the entire population. No wonder all of them could fit in Casteglace. 

No wonder why it was so easy to hate them without any opposition.

If it kept on going like that, the Kinds would be accused of every single crime, responsible of every single trouble the city or the citizens would have. They were the perfect scapegoat, the perfect tool for Zarkon’s dictatorship to succeed.

Find people a scapegoat and they’ll follow you everywhere, as long as they have someone to blame when things get rough.

“And all the Kinds who refuse to serve their city, well, shame of them! They should just hide somewhere! No need for them to shove their Kindness-” The audience laughed. “-into our faces, thank you very much!”

The Officer went on with several laws, all very strict and tight, all with attacks toward the Kinds, as well as several reminders about the sanctions if the laws were broken, the worst of them being an imprisonment in the Bastillon. He was going on and on about random subjects, but all of them were making Lance want to throw up.

“And finally, the daily notices!” the Diva chanted, the crowd with her. “First, Mayor Grandeur’s plans for the next three years concerning electricity in the streets will be displayed on the Martroi Place, go check them out! Second, we have a new minister in the Council, he’ll make a short appearance later in the day! Third-” 

Neither Keith nor Lance wanted to hear anymore of that.

After what seemed a thousand years, the Officer thanked everyone, and the mob began to move again to scatter. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Keith whispered and the Talker nodded. 

What he hadn’t foreseen was that he was awfully bad at navigating between people, while the black-haired boy seemed completely at ease, as if he had suddenly become a ghost with repellent powers allowing him to slip into the crowd as if he was swimming into the sea. 

Soon, Lance, shoved and pushed by everyone around him, noticed that there was no Keith around anymore. Panic surged through him, his heart suddenly hammering in his chest as he twisted his neck to look around him, desperately trying to spot the long leather coat and the black mullet. 

He didn’t want to shout, that would have attracted too much attention. He didn’t know what to do either, except letting himself being carried by the crowd to avoid being crushed, and being careful to people trying to stomp his toes. 

“Keith?” he called, his voice low not to be noticed. People didn’t really pay him attention anyway, but after hearing that Speech, he didn’t feel reassured anymore in the midst of normal citizens. “Hey, mullet-boy?” he tried once more. His voice got caught in his throat. He thought he had seen him, but that was someone else. He avoided an old lady, painfully felt the hard corner of a bag into his back, gritted his teeth when an elbow connected with his ribcage. 

But the worst was the panic, coming back and forth like the waves, more and more powerful each time, threatening to drown him if he didn’t find someone, something, anything soon to anchor himself. 

Don’t talk, don’t talk, don’t talk, he thought, quiet if you don’t want to attract people’s attention.

But all of his body was screaming “TALK!” as it was his only way to reassure himself, to control the panic, to calm down his painful heartbeat and his short breath, to prevent his head from spinning even more. His thoughts were confused and tangled, his movements clumsy and gawky. Soon, he felt sweat running down his temple, his eyes searching frantically through the crowd, his lower lip bleeding as he had bitten it too hard to prevent himself from talking, his throat hurting, his voice pushing to get out, to be freed. 

He nearly fell, was brutally shoved aside against someone else, muttered a strangled apology that came out as a panicked squeal and tried to run, only to be pushed back by someone else.

He was drowning. 

Literally.

The mob was the sea, and right now the sea was raging on. 

So he was drowning, because he barely knew how to swim. 

His breath fastened up to hyperventilation, as if his lungs were trying to get as much air as they could in this suffocating mass, and his voice was pushing up his throat, up and up to his mouth, up to his lips, up-

“Lance!”

Keith swiftly moved into the crowd, finding him, putting a hand on his shoulder, talking to him, though Lance could barely hear the words. Relief fought the panic back, slowly, carefully, steadily.

“Are you alright?” the Blacksmith was saying. “I take my eyes off of you one second and you disappear! Hey, are you okay?”

Lance nodded weakly, ashamed to appear so fragile. But Keith didn’t seem to mind: he just looked really, really worried for him. 

“I’m here,” he said, “it’s going to be okay.” He took his hand and led him to the shore in an empty street. “It’s okay.”

The Talker was still breathing heavily, but he was already feeling better. His hand unconsciously squeezed Keith’s, as if he didn’t want to let go.

And truth was: he really didn’t want to let go.

The Blacksmith’s hand was warm, calloused from the hours of work, yet comforting and securing. Being so close to him, Lance could smell his soft scent of burnt wood, and all he wanted right now was to bury his nose into the crook of Keith’s neck to impregnate himself with that scent of home and safety.

Lance didn’t have a Home, as a Talker. And he didn’t have a home either, one without a capital letter, since he couldn’t remember a damn thing about his past, except his favorite romance novels and just a few impressions. 

But now he was with Keith, and Keith had a Home, a Workshop, and had shared a room with Lance. Which really felt like having a home. A place to crash.

Somewhere safe.

“I’m alright,” he whispered faintly, glad that the Blacksmith hadn’t jerked his hand away from his yet. He had been able to see, in the crowd, how uncomfortable Keith was with physical contact, but strangely enough, he didn’t seem to mind Lance’s. 

Good news at least. 

The Talker took one deep breath and rose his head slowly. His eyes met the black-haired boy’s and he managed to smile, regaining his composure. He opened his mouth to talk, but a finger on his lips shush him. 

Keith’s face was a few inches only from his and his face heat up considerably. Damn, that boy was way too hot for Lance’s heart. Was he on tiptoe? He was on tiptoe. Oh no, that was way too cute.

“Ssh,” the Blacksmith whispered in his ear, his breath on the Talker’s cheek. “There are some Security Officers around, I bet they’re going to be in this alley very soon. They don’t like me at all, and they don’t like outsiders so much either.”

“H-how do you know it?” Lance asked hesitantly, his expression suddenly concerned. 

“I know their routine,” Keith answered. “Ten minutes after a Speech, they’re always scouting around the little streets near Griffin Place to see if people are contesting Zarkon’s words or consping against him. And I must admit,” he grimaced, “I heard them coming up to my Workshop enough to be able to perceive the clinking sound of their armors from afar.”

The Talker nodded slowly. He was more than aware of the city’s situation, now, and of how a patrol after a speech wasn’t normal. And he was more than worried. This was not how a city was supposed to be. This was… surely not the real Villetempest anymore. Normal citizens thinking the Kinds were a threat and willing to prove their superiority? One shady dictator increasing and increasing the taxes and enrolling people in the military? The more Lance thought about it, the more he felt like information about Villetempest’s situation was unleashed in his mind, coming up easily, providing him all the things he hadn’t understood yet about the town.

The situation here wasn’t normal. It was frightening, actually. What’s more, Zarkon had talked about a war incoming, which wasn’t reassuring either.

And Lance, strangely, had the feeling that he, more than anyone, didn’t want this war to happen. 

“We should go,” Keith declared after listening for another second. He pulled back, much to Lance’s dismay, and grabbed his sleeve, ready to drag him elsewhere. But he stopped with a curse. 

“What, what?” the Talker panicked, alarmed. He was also hearing the clinking sounds closing up, now. 

“Fuck it all, they’re coming from two sides!” the black-haired boy swore. “I didn’t know that the second patrol was also out today!”

“They didn’t spot us, did they?” Lance asked.

“Nah.” Keith shook his head, and a sigh of relief escaped the brunette’s lips. “They just use a second patrol some days. But now…” he frowned. “I have the feeling that it’s gonna be everyday like that.”

“Zarkon’s getting more paranoid?” 

The Blacksmith threw him a curious look, forgetting a second about their situation. “What?” But when the clinking sound got closer, and his cursed again. He was casting glances around him, looking for an issue - and he could have escaped by the roofs, but would the Talker be able to follow him? 

Surely not.

And they both knew it.

Lance was searching frantically into his memory for something useful, anything, that could save them. The guilt was burning in his chest: the Blacksmith would have been able to get out of here without flinching if he hadn’t been here like. 

So he had to do something. But what? Could he try to Talk? He tried to remember but his panicked mind didn’t give him anything useful. Once more, all he had were a few words of Talking, some impressions of his past, some information about the city, or about anything in general and romance novels.

Romance novels.

An idea suddenly struck him, but he hesitated. Could he really do that? Wasn’t it like, the worst idea in the world? “Keith,” he began, since he couldn’t come up with another plan right now, “it’s going to sound awful and stupid, but-”

He caught glance of the reflection of the sun on an approaching armor and decided that acts primed over words, for once. He just prayed not to be killed by a very angry black-haired boy who would break his spine if it was a normal situation.

Pressing brutally the Blacksmith against the wall, he slipped his hands beneath the leather coat around his thin waist and slammed his mouth against his, hungrily.

His stomach did a flip when a thousand butterfly took off up to his hammering heart and he felt himself wanting more, wanting to feel more beneath his fingertips, wanting to taste more of the lips he was devouring, of the tongue his own was battling.

Keith’s first reflex was to kick him away and struggle, but he quickly caught sight of the Security Officers and immediately understood Lance’s decision. It was one hell of a stupid plan, but it actually made sense and could even work pretty well. 

And it was kind of difficult to resist when your whole body was being crossed by a bubbling electric current before begging you to give in and while your mouth was literally melting under the fire of the kiss. He wrapped his arms around the Talker’s neck, abandoning himself in his arms, and kissed back.

Hard.

As they were, it was now very hard to see their faces, to know who they were, to guess that an outsider was kissing the last Blacksmith of the town. Sure, Keith wore his Blacksmiths clothes, but the Blacksmiths of Castleglace went out in town too and they also wore their usual outfits. He could be any of them. They were just two lovers hiding from the rest of the world in a small alley, two nobodies that the Officers wouldn’t want to stay around for no reason, as when seeing a quite heated making out, people strangely tended to avert their gaze and hurry away. 

Keith had thought his first wish would have been for this situation to end as soon as possible, but he had to admit, he wasn’t disgusted. Far from it, actually. His mind reluctantly agreed with his body that Lance was one hell of a kisser, that the hands traveling from his back to his hips weren’t that intrusive and disturbing, and that he had the complete right to slid his fingers through the soft brown locks at the base of the Talker’s nape. 

Damn, he had never been kissed like that. Never.

The clinking, heavy steps got closer and stopped behind them, and Keith felt himself kissing Lance more passionately in hope that they would just cringe at them and walk away quickly. 

No such luck.

One of the Security Officers coughed, sounding quite embarrassed and possibly disgusted, and tapped Lance’s shoulder several time. Surely just a simple check, he would simply ask them to move somewhere else, but it could still be dangerous if he decided that their faces didn’t please him and were worth asking more questions.

Keith tensed up, prepared for the worst, but it was the brunette’s reaction which was completely unexpected. He pulled away just a little, their lips still close, and slightly turned his head toward the Officers. His eyes, however, brutally locked onto the man who had tapped his shoulder, gleaming with a dark and angry glint.

And suddenly it was like the entire alley had frozen, as if the temperature had dropped brutally to the absolute zero. 

“ **_Go away_ ** .” 

The world got paralyzed for a second. 

Two words only, two powerful words, spoken with the dangerously low and husky voice of a threatening  _ Talker _ , and the man took a good step back. 

In fact, all men did. 

Lance’s eyes were still on them, piercing and sharp, ominous, frightening. 

“Sure,” the man gulped down, before they all quickly hurried away, wanting nothing more but to get out of here before they got hunted down as the dark glare promised.

Keith felt cold, not even able to feel relieved that they were safe. Not sure if it was because of Lance’s suddenly dangerous aura or because he lacked from his touch. 

Or because seeing him like that was actually scary.

Anyway the cold didn’t last long, because the next second Lance was kissing him again, devouring his mouth as if to make up for the few seconds lost, and he almost lost himself into that fire burning between their lips. 

Almost. 

They had no reason to kiss anymore, after all, so all his pride and inner wall came back rushing as he pushed Lance’s chest away hard, turning his head away to separate their mouths. “Hey, Lance!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing?”

The Talker’s eyes changed all of a sudden, getting back to normal, and he jumped back with a yelp. “Oh my god I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m so, so, so sorry, just kill me now! Or no, please don’t kill me now!” He sounded very confused. “I just- I forgot why- I mean-” He took his head between in hands with a whine. “Why am I so stupid?”

Keith hesitated between being angry and feeling sorry for Lance. In the end, the dejected look on his face was so funny that he chose to burst out laughing. “Well, it was a stupid plan, but at least it worked,” he declared with a little smile.

Lance blinked, surprised. It was not often that the Blacksmith laughed and smiled like that, and the thought warmed up his chest, slowly washing away the shame. He grinned. “Well since romance novels seems to be the only useful thing in my memory, I thought I might as well use that.”

Keith rolled his eyes, but he was clearly amused. “Why doesn’t this surprise me?”

“Oh, shush, those are really great books,” the Talker pouted. “Plus it basically saved our asses so be grateful I read them.”

“Well you also played a part,” the black-haired boy noted pensively. “You Talked right?” His face got a little concerned. “Did you forget anything?”

Lance averted his gaze. “Well it’s easy to Talk with people in the normal language and to give them orders-”

“Lance.” Keith’s face was serious, now. “Did you forget anything?”

“I did, but now I remember,” the brunette muttered, embarrassed. Seeing the Blacksmith’s intrigued expression, he sighed, then hesitated. “I forgot why we were kissing, that’s why…” He didn’t finish.

That was why he had kissed Keith again even when the Officers were gone. 

The Blacksmith raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask what was in his head for him to kiss a guy he had met the night before without any valuable reason, but Lance was a Talker, and Talkers were commonly known as weird. Plus, he looked extremely embarrassed and ashamed, ready to disappear right here right now, so he decided to spare him. 

Let’s change the subject, Keith thought, since the silence was becoming more and more awkward. “So I… didn’t know you had it bad with crowds.” Okay, not the best way to change of subject but he had done his best. 

Lance’s sighed. “I didn’t know either.” Of course.

“Well, I get you,” Keith shrugged casually. “I mean, it’s Villetempest’s mob, exalted by a Diva. It’s not your usual crowd of people. I’ve been through it during all my life and Thace-” He paused. “And someone taught me how to navigate into the mob so I know my way and I know not to panic.”

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” Lance whined. “I was so scared! It was like I was drowning and you weren’t there, and-”

“I know.”

The Talker shut it. Keith wasn’t angry, his eyes were soft and understanding. Surely, when he was young, he had been through the same, and someone - that Thace Keith didn’t want to talk about - had taught him the ways of the city, the ways of the crowd. Surely, he had drowned too, once, had felt as lost and panicked and desperate as Lance had been back there, and had then learnt to navigate in the raging sea of people.

“I should make you visit the rest of the city,” the Blacksmith concluded and Lance nodded quickly, then following him out of the little alley.

* * *

 

**Late afternoon:**

The sun was setting when they got back to Wail street, and they were both quite exhausted. Keith had dragged the brunette all over the town, showing him almost everything while avoiding the Security Officers as best as he could. He was aware that it was surely a lot to learn for the Talker, but it has to be done today. Tomorrow, the Government Officers might come back in the morning, or patrol around his Workshop, and it would be very risky for him to be seen with Lance again. 

“Let’s go back”, he said, shoving a tired brunette in front of him. 

“Give me a break, goddamnit,” Lance whined, still able to talk not matter what. “You just made me walk into the  _ entire _ putain de city and mierda Villetempest is not small.” 

“Slang?” Keith raised an eyebrow, not quite catching some words.

Lance stuck out his tongue at him. “I’m too tired to pay attention to what I say.”

“Then you better shut it because if anyone hears you, you’re automatically labelled as an outsider,” he warned.

They were getting closer to Polstead road and Keith’s heart leaped in his chest: he was about to get back to his beloved Workshop! Finally! A little smile crept on his lips, and luckily Lance was in front of him else he would have caught him grinning like an idiot, thinking about that cute little dagger that needed to be finished today.

But his expression and happy plans broke down when he saw what was expecting him at the end of the street.

Government Officers.

Just in front of his Workshop.

They must have gotten here in the afternoon, and since he was out, waited for him to come back - a very unusual thing because they had never showed up the day after Mist Night before -, which was really bad.

The worst situation actually.

Keith could usually handle them but he was at disadvantage out of his Workshop. No way to slam the door in their faces. No way to make an army of sharp tools float behind his back. No way to kick them away.

He was trapped outside.

He thought about going back through the underground network going from one of the forsaken Workshops but that would show that he had a way to come back other than by the front door and Keith didn’t want the Officers to get a single hint about that possibility.

In front of him, Lance had also stopped, noticing the problem. He turned his head toward the black-haired boy, worried. They exchanged a look before discreetly turning around, hurrying out of sight. 

“Okay, we’re screwed if they see us so I guess we can’t go back,” Keith whispered, walking so quickly the Talker was barely following.

“What are they doing here?” the brunette exclaimed.

The Blacksmith had a grim expression. “What do you think?”

Lance hesitated then wisely chose not to add anything. “Okay,” he said. “So what do we do? The night is already falling.”

“I guess we’ll sleep outside, then,” Keith shrugged. Not like it had never happened to him before.

“Oh, great, fantastic, magnificent,” Lance rolled his eyes, raising his arms. “There are lots of Security Officers outside and we’re going to spend the night in the streets. Best plan ever.”

“You have a better idea?” the black-haired boy shot back with a death glare.

“I don’t know, go to a Hospital or something,” the Talker replied, exasperated. So he did have a better idea.

But Keith had also thought about it and the reason why this alternative had soon been eclipsed was clear.

“And involve more people with us? Lance, there are a lot of normal citizens working in a Hospital here, and especially in the administration. If one day you’re spotted and Zarkon throws a witch hunt against any outsider, they’re going to be in danger and to put us in danger.”

The Talker remained silent a bit, thinking about it. “I didn’t know you cared about those people,” he admitted.

“One of the Angels is my friend,” Keith simply answered.

And above all, his only friend.

Unless he counted Lance as one, which raised the excellent question of how he considered the brunette exactly.

“Okay, so we sleep on the streets,” the Talker sighed, resigned.

“Or at least we stay in town until the Government Officers are gone,” Keith rectified. That seemed like a better plan.

“Alright, can do that,” Lance muttered. He was still not convinced but at least he wouldn’t complain every two seconds. “What worse that could happen after all?”

That’s when it began to rain. They didn’t even see the black clouds, but in ten seconds, the sky darkened, some droplets began to fall, then increased before turning into a pouring curtain of rain.

The two young men ran to shelter themselves with curses and swearing, finally stopping under an arcade.

“That wasn’t in the plan,” Keith admitted, out of breath. 

“Fuck, didn’t see that coming!” Lance exclaimed, his eyes wide.

The Blacksmith laughed at his expression. The bad weather had somehow made him feel better, his chest suddenly lighter. He liked the rain. He liked its sound, calming him down, and the fact that rainy days were the guardians of the streets. No Officer out during a rainy day. He was feeling safe. “Welcome to Villetempest!” he grinned.

The brunette blinked, wondering if the vision of Keith drenched, laughing out loud, his dripping bangs all over his handsome face, would ever leave his mind in peace.

Probably never.

He blushed and shook his head to brush the thought away. “Is it always like that?” he whined instead of swooning over the young man.

“Oh, no,” Keith chuckled. “It’s not raining often but boy when it does you never see it coming.”

“I had noticed.” Lance pulled out a face which made the black-haired boy laugh again.

Which totally hadn’t been his goal.

“Relax, it’s just rain.” His expression got a bit melancholic. “Since Zarkon came in, we never had any storm.”

Lance hesitated, some info coming back up from the depth of his mind. “Isn’t… wasn’t… Villetempest reputed for the storms?”

“Yes,” Keith answered with a sad smile. “Yes it was. I heard so much about the storms, how impressive they were, but they never happen anymore.”

They remained silent a while. Mentioning Zarkon was an instant mood-killer. 

The Talker leaned against the wall with a small sigh, taking off his drenched jacket. He let it drop in front of him, watching it fall before looking at the puddle forming next to it.  “So…” He tried to be as casual as he could. He didn’t know why he was doing this right now, but this was necessary if he wanted to be able to stay with Keith without becoming crazy with secrets, mysteries and questions. “Who’s Thace?” he asked. Keith jerked back as if he had been stabbed, his eyes dark and glaring, and Lance raised his hands in appeasement. “Wow, calm down, it’s just a question.”

“I thought I had said it was none of your business,” Keith coldly hissed with a controlled anger.

“But why?” he insisted. “Why do you react so brutally? Is it such a sensible subject?”

“Why should I tell you?” the Blacksmith shot back dryly.

Lance rolled his eyes, exasperated. The walls that Keith had put around himself, desperately pushing him away, hiding things and closing up himself entirely, all of this was tiring for the Talker who was trying to reach him, to know him better, to enter his world because damn, he didn’t have one himself, and also because of something else that he didn’t really want to remember. 

He knew it was wrong to force Keith to open up. But he had enough of being outside. He was too frustrated to give in without getting anything in return.

He felt selfish. 

But he had to do that anyway. 

“Maybe because you’re currently the only person I know and trust?” he exclaimed angrily. “I don’t know, mec, I put my life in your hands and I’m telling you everything about me, but you barely spit anything about yourself! You can’t blame me for wanting to know a bit more about the guy who’s basically everything I have now, no?”

He blushed when he realized what he had just said and averted his gaze, the guilt finally taking over his frustration.

But it was the truth: Keith was everything he had now, and it was just fair that he wanted to know more about him.

He gulped down, feeling his tongue burning under the small yet big lie he had also said: he hadn’t told Keith everything he knew.

For example, he had let the details of the Naming aside, but he was decided to bury the said details in his memory and never bring them up.

Keith clenched his fists, defensive and hesitant. He looked at Lance, thinking about all the times the Talker had blabbered about himself while they were walking, unstoppable, saying a bit of everything, what he remembered, what he knew of himself, to the point Keith had had enough at some point, and then he also thought about what he had told to Lance.

Compared to what he knew about the brunette, it was nothing.

He sighed, defeated, and dropped his aggressive attitude. “Right,” he said, still a bit reluctantly. “Fair enough, I guess.”

He leaned against the wall next to Lance and sat down, his chin on his knees, arms crossed against his shins. The Talker waited a second then sat next to him, unusually silent.

“Thace was my mentor,” Keith began, looking at the pouring rain. “He was my parent’s neighbour and when they were taken away by the government, he took care of me.” He had a little nostalgic smile. “He taught me everything, showed me everything. He was like a father. The dad I would never know. He told me many stories about the time before Zarkon, about how it was. He had great hopes that one day, things would change, and that we would both be able to see it. He was the best Blacksmith I ever knew. He…” The Blacksmith hesitated. “He was everything I had at that time. So when the government took him by force after such a long time fighting for his freedom… it was a shock for me. I was fifteen and I had spent all my life with him by my side, thinking it would always be the two of us even against the rest of the world, and then… one day… he just wasn’t there anymore, you know?”

“You perfectly know I don’t,” Lance whispered. “But I get what you mean.”

The sound of the rain seemed dull compared to the heavy silence between them. “Do you?” Keith finally asked. 

Lance took a sharp breath. “You honestly think I didn’t consider the possibility of you kicking me away today? Keith, if I were to lose you…” He didn’t finish his sentence, too embarrassed, and bit his lower lip as the silence settled back like a dragon barely bothered from his gold. 

“We met yesterday,” the black-haired boy commented with a small voice. He didn’t want to show that he was actually deeply touched by those words. And Lance’s tone had said everything: he understood.

All Keith had described, the Talker got it. 

“Keith,” Lance went on, and the way of saying his name made the Blacksmith’s heart skip a beat, “I forget things, so many things, but I have impressions, feelings, left somewhere in my memory. An incurable loneliness, the sensation of having been forsaken, and also deep, deep need to be found. And because I forget things so quickly, I have to make up new feelings real fast, you see. That way, at least, they will stay and I will be able to remember them. Plus when you don’t know anything about yourself, you try to hang on to the people you can trust, to make the most of your relationship with them as fast as you can because you’re so  _ lost  _ and you’re so  _ lonely _ .” He turned toward Keith, his eyes serious yet sad. “I told you, you’re everything I have right now. I have to believe in you, to trust you, to think about you and what if you weren’t there anymore, I have to tell you as many things as I can about myself and learn as many things about yourself as I can  _ before I forget _ . And worst,  _ before I forget you too. _ ” 

He paused, searching for his words. He had the feeling he was walking on a dangerously thin line, because even if it was easy telling Keith a lot of things about himself, it was harder telling him a lot of things about how he felt deep inside. “You’re the key to my memory, Keith,” he added softly. “If I forget something, you can remind me. So I have to fasten the “getting to know each other” processus because I won’t remember anything about you, or me, or-” He breathed out heavily. “-or  _ us _ if you keep on staying behind your walls. And it’s scary.” He lowered his head with sorrow. “We’re talking now, but tomorrow I could wake up and have forgotten everything about you, or you could walk away for a minute but I won’t remember that and I will think you abandoned me forever. That poof, like that, you’re not there anymore.”

Keith tried to say something, but failed. His eyes were locked in the dark blue gaze, unable to escape it. He wanted to say something but he just wasn’t good with words. He wasn’t good with talking. 

So he acted.

He slowly raised his hand, unsure, shy. His fingers reached for the tanned skin, their gentle touch brushing Lance’s cheek and sending shivers down his spine, before awkwardly yet softly adjusting a messy lock on his forehead. Then Keith’s retreated his arm back against his shins, and they broke eye contact. 

“I spent my entire life almost alone, taught that the world around me was not worth opening up to,” he finally said with a deep sigh. “I’m a Blacksmith, Lance. It’s hard to change that. Old habits die hard.”

“I don’t remember what my life was before, so I guess I was only born one night ago, which means I spent my entire life with a Blacksmith,” Lance replied with a shy grin. He saw the black-haired boy rolling his eyes and the grin widened. “I’m a Talker, Keith. It’s hard to change that. Old habits die hard.”

“And your life is short,” he shot back, trying to hide the fact that he was moved each time the brunette said that he was everything he had.

“Please don’t bury me yet,” Lance laughed. “My life is still not over.” His laugh became a bit nervous, telling again how scared he was to lose his memories once more.

And Keith realized he was scared of that too. Of Lance forgetting everything, and especially forgetting about him.

About them. 

Why was there already a “them”? he suddenly thought, embarrassed. He averted his gaze and brutally got up. This wasn’t right. This felt way  _ too _ right. It was going so quickly, too quickly for him to follow. 

He wasn’t ready yet to open up so fast to an almost-stranger. 

Even if he more than wanted to.

“It’s not raining anymore!” he exclaimed, looking at the sky now clear from any cloud and any drops.

“Great,” Lance smiled, getting on his feet. 

The street still wore the strong scent of rain, the pavement covered with puddles, water running down the gutters. They hadn’t really noticed it, too busy talking, but the night had fallen, naming the world darkness and covering the city in its blanket of obscurity. The moon was shining brightly, as to contest its authority, accompanied by an army of stars. Both boys gazed at the night sky in awe.

“Wow,” Keith simply commented. 

“You don’t say,” the Talker agreed, his mouth agape.

“I had never noticed we had that kind of sky,” he admitted. “I guess I never paid attention to it until today.”

“Yeah,” Lance said with an inspired nod, “sometimes you just gotta take a break in your life and look up. To see where you are. To see what’s around. And what’s above.”

Keith bit his lower lip. The Talker’s words were strangely right. “Is it some kind of Ability, to be able to make people understand sentences that don’t mean anything?” he joked.

“You know what? I think it is,” the brunette laughed. 

The Blacksmith smiled back, softly, and turned his head to hide it. No matter how hard he tried to distance himself emotionally with that damned outsider, he just couldn’t. It was like his life was tied tight with Lance’s, and there was no way he could escape it.

Which, weirdly, didn’t bother him  _ that _ much.

“We better check if the Security Officers are still-” He stopped. Pronouncing the word “Officers” had made him think of something. “Wait, why aren’t the lights on? We don’t have any free Light-Bearers or Street-Guardians anymore, but the Light Officers should have lightened them out by now.”

“Oh, bordel of mierda,” the Talker swore back, as the Mist gently settled down upon the street around them. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was thinking of opening a tumblr for my writing, or at least for Words and Fire... what do you think about it? Please give me an advice here, I'm a shy, insecure bean who isn't sure of anything :'D you would be able to ask me questions, or give your ideas, and see my progress in the story as well as read bits of the first drafts and extracts as I'm writing. How does it sound?
> 
> EDIT: tumblr created! :'D I'm trying to organize it for the moment, to make masterlists for my writings, fics and stuff but... here you go!

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to ask me any question or to suggest me anything on my tumblr: http://linkedsoul.tumblr.com  
> Title, summary, tags, ratings and warnings, can change.  
> I don't know where I'm going with this, I'm sorry, it's still a draft.


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